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"It is the last bottle." "What?" said Swithin; "and you gave it to a beggar?" "My name is Boleskey Stefan," the Hungarian said, raising his head; "of the Komorn Boleskeys." The simplicity of this phrase as who shall say: What need of further description? made an impression on Swithin; he stopped to listen. Boleskey's story went on and on.
"You?" he cried, slapping his hand on his attenuated thigh, and leaning over till his beard touched Swithin. "You have come? You followed us?" "It seems so," Swithin grunted out. "You throw in your lot with us. Is it possible? You you are a knight-errant then!" "Good God!" said Swithin. Boleskey, flogging his dejected steed, cantered forward in the moonlight.
He turned away from that scented darkness, and began to draw the corks of winebottles. The sound seemed to conjure up Boleskey. He came in, splashed all over, smelling slightly of stables; soon after, Margit appeared, fresh and serene, but Rozsi did not come. "Where is your sister?" Swithin said. Rozsi, it seemed, was tired. "It will do her good to eat," said Swithin.
He stared at them in turn they seemed of all classes, some in black coats or silk dresses, others in the clothes of work-people; one man, a cobbler, still wore his leather apron, as if he had rushed there straight from his work. Laying his hand on Swithin's arm, Boleskey evidently began explaining who he was; hands were extended, people beyond reach bowed to him.
It turned out to be Boleskey, who, on a gaunt white horse, looked like some winged creature. He stood where he could bar the progress of the carriage, holding out a pistol. 'Theatrical beggar! thought Swithin, with a nervous smile. He made no sign of recognition. Slowly Boleskey brought his lean horse up to the carriage. When he saw who was within he showed astonishment and joy.
'I like to see him take his liquor, he thought; 'the fellow's a gentleman, after all. Boleskey strode on, savagely inattentive to everything; and Kasteliz had become more like a cat than ever. It was nearly dark when they reached a narrow street close to the cathedral. They stopped at a door held open by an old woman.
To the bottom of his soul he resented the Hungarian's gratitude. He remarked at last, with wasted irony: "You're in a hurry, it seems!" "If we had wings," Boleskey answered, "we would use them." "Wings!" muttered Swithin thickly; "legs are good enough for me."
He was always thinking of Rozsi, he could not read the riddle in her face she held him in a vice, notwithstanding that everything about her threatened the very fetishes of his existence. And Boleskey! Whenever he looked at him he thought, 'If he were only clean? and mechanically fingered his own well-tied cravatte.
'How pretty she looks! She blushed, drew in her hands with a quick tense movement, and gazed again beyond him into the room. 'What is it? thought Swithin; he had a longing to lean back and kiss her lips. He tried angrily to see what she was seeing in those faces turned all one way. Boleskey rose to speak. No one moved; not a sound could be heard but the tone of his deep voice.
Kasteliz had fixed his glowing eyes on her; Boleskey, nodding his head, was staring at the floor; Margit, with a pale face, stood like a statue. 'What can they see in it? thought Swithin; 'it's not a tune. He took up his hat. Rozsi saw him and stopped; her lips had parted with a faintly dismayed expression. His sense of personal injury diminished; he even felt a little sorry for her.
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